


Aw Piss, It's My Birthday

by throwashadow



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Birthday, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwashadow/pseuds/throwashadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knubbler needs to get Murderface something for his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aw Piss, It's My Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hatebeat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatebeat/gifts).



> I don't know the first thing about producing music or Pro Tools so please don't assume that I do.

Dick was used to dirty work – and dirty play, for that matter. Thirty years in the music producing business had muddled up the two more than he had ever bargained for. Violence, sex, and drugs were all normal elements of his work week.

But waking up at five on a Sunday morning for this project was pushing his limits. He shuffled stiffly from his red-silk chamber to the other end of Mordhaus, the most foreboding room of the whole building: the studio.

Foreboding? Not to Dick “Magic Ears” Knubbler. But working in here could get really obnoxious really quick.

And before dawn on this particular special Sunday morning, Dick knew he was about to sink his teeth into the worst material that any member of Dethklok could offer him. Shifting in the leather computer chair, Dick reluctantly powered up one of the Macs and loaded the folder marked “PLANET PISS.”

 -----

William lay awake, still and nauseous with anxiety. It was five in the morning and he couldn’t get back to sleep. He had a bad dream, but couldn’t remember what had happened in it. That made it worse. Rolling over, he caught a glint of light at the edge of his vision. It was a reflection in the suit of armor that stood in the middle of the room. The source of the light was his phone, which lay on the floor next to his bed.

He reached down to grab the device and tumbled out of bed, elbows, and knees hitting hard.

“Aw, piss,” he said, noticing the phone’s display, “It’s my birthday.”

 ------ 

In the studio, Dick had a little cycle going. He would stare narrow-eyed at the mess of failed Pro Tools files; crack his knuckles determinedly; make a single, aimless click; and then rest one hand under his chin and begin again. Doing this with William next to him barking ridiculous orders (“Put more zazz in that track!” “Can you mix the vocals so I sound, y’know, sexier?”) was better than going at it alone. Willy made the job so impossible that Dick didn’t feel all that bad about getting nothing done. But Dick needed an end product this time – which was half the reason he came in alone.

The other reason? This project was the birthday boy’s big surprise.

It had been Charles’ fault, that bastard. Ofdenson might look like a straight-laced guy, Dick thought, but he had a sadistic streak wider than Mordhaus itself. The week before, after a budget meeting, Charles had cornered Dick – had casually walked him into such a position that he was under the full gaze and scrutiny of Charles, making it seem like an accident – and asked what his plans were for William’s birthday.

“Oh, is that coming up?” Dick forced nonchalance.

“Next week. The boys have been brainstorming their own gift, but you will, ah, be expected to contribute as well.”

“Of course, of course I will. Didn’t think I wouldn’t for a second.” _Shit, I’ll have to come up with something_.

“You, ah…didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m just not sure what the boy wants! His taste is so fickle, you know?”

“Might I suggest,” Charles’ voice dropped as if he were telling a secret, “something personal. Something that no one else could give him.”

“Well, I’m not sure if I could pull that off, babe. I’m hardly the sentimental type.” Something about the way Charles said that made Dick feel threatened into frankness.

“You’re in the music business, Knubbler. I’m sure you can come up with something. Just think about what would make William happy.”

Dick swallowed. Charles never cornered and threatened him over the other boys’ birthdays. And that was probably because the other boys didn’t have solo projects produced by him. Lucky little me, he thought.

 ------- 

He was still splayed belly-down on the floor, joints aching from his fall.

“Or maybe I’m just getting fucking old,” he muttered. He tried not to think about his age, because his age made him think about all the ages he had been, which had all really sucked. Just the thought passing over his mind made him feel like he was glued to the floor, with the collected instruments of torture standing over him. He stewed in that feeling for a while, feeling the hardness of the floor pressing into his knees and the side of his face.

Laying on the floor felt like a great big fucking surrender, he thought. _I should do this every morning_.

\------

Why did Murderface have to be the one with the solo career, out of all of them? It wasn’t the lack of talent – he wasn’t as bad as his bandmates proclaimed, in any case. He wasn’t as good as, say, Skwisgaar, but it was Dick’s job to make his shit sound better. It wasn’t his looks, either. It was William’s job as a celebrity to make himself at least seem attractive, no matter his appearance. Dick didn’t think he looked all that bad, anyway. It was the constant stream of self-depreciation that made Willy the worst part of Dick’s job.  Dick would rather sort through Skwisgaar’s horrible English or Pickles’ substance dependency than William’s head-in-the-dumpster routine.

But here he was, up to his elbows in piss, trying to put together one decent track out of all of William’s failed recording sessions just to give the poor boy a personal and meaningful birthday gift. Of course, only at the threat of a certain CFO.

 _The sky is piss the earth is piss the trees are piss_ the speakers blared for the umpteenth time.

\------

By the time he was bored enough to get up, it was a reasonable hour to be awake - which meant his bandmates would be around. Great. William dressed in his usual garb, making lazy knots in his boot laces, because there was abso-fucking-lutely nothing special about this stupid day and he wanted to look extra plain and ugly so that no one would even try to convince him otherwise. He set off to the dining room for breakfast, just wanting to get the day over with.

“Goods mornings, Moiderface.”

Aw, piss.

\------

Dick kept slaving. Three espressos and a line later, he’d made progress, but not enough considering the time spent. True, the deeper he got into his work, the more things came together. But only so many of these gnarled and fragmented parts would fit together. He made cuts, copied samples, slowed and sped and pitch-corrected to hell and back. So far, it sounded really fucking cheap, and a little like smooth jazz with vocals by the Cookie Monster. He needed a raise. And a blowjob.

\------

Looking at Skwisgaar always made him feel angry. Existing made him feel angry, for that matter, but stupid blondie Skwisgaar with his sculpted face and cut arms and slim body and all that fucking ego and talent oozing off him, now THAT was something to be depressed over. Usually the damn swede didn’t bother Murderface, but since it was his birthday he just had to make it an awful day and say good morning.

“Mmmhmmm. Mornin’.” He was reluctant to respond at all, but might as well pretend he wasn’t in a worse mood than usual if he didn’t want to be treated like it.

“What ams you doing this mornings?”

He’d gone out of his way to say good morning, but he didn’t acknowledge it was Murderface’s birthday? Weird.

“Oh, you know, just gonna get some grub, gotta keep the engine stoked and all.”

“Why don’ts yous a’come with mes?” Skwisgaar smiled awkwardly as a klokateer snuck up behind William and thrust a bag over his head.

\-----

Now he was getting somewhere. Another line, a few minutes crying in the bathroom, a Klokateer coming in to slap him across the face (personally sent by Ofdensen), and the track was beginning to sound like a grindcore demo tape, which was better than smooth jazz, at least.

And Dick was beginning to find his groove, in a way. He hated this, he really hated this, but it was a challenge he hadn’t faced before. Exciting to sit down and pound something cohesive out of a pile of shit. Rather, piss. The idea of giving this to Willy was a little exciting, too. He was always putting himself down, but if he heard a real solid piece of work that he had been involved in, maybe he’d cheer up a little, right? Dick had no idea. He’d never seen the poor boy happy.

Skwisgaar burst into the room. “Hurries up, you ladymans! He knows something’s up!”

Dick swung around in his chair. “Don’t you worry, babe. It’s almost done. Just hold him back for another five minutes and this record will be hot off the press.”

“If you takes any longer...” He slinked away, mumbling in Swedish.

\------

William was sitting in the meeting room, alone and bored, bored, bored! He might not have wanted birthday wishes, but he didn’t want to be locked alone at a stupid big table with nothing to do for...three hours now. They’d promised him something good if he was patient and didn’t go anywhere. After the first hour he thought it was probably a prank, but the doors had been locked so there was no getting out of it. He called everyone’s dethphones too, but there were no answers. The klokateers wouldn’t even come when he paged them.

This was a real bucket of piss. Happy birthday, Murderface, we won’t say it but we won’t say anything else, either, or let you walk around your own damn house or go get a snack or take a piss. What else was new, they just loved to bully him.

The sound of his phone jolted him. “What the fuck do you want?” he snarled without checking the number.

“Willy, babe! How are you doing?”

Knubbler, that faggot! Calling him at a time like this! Some nerve.

“Oh I’m just GREAT, Dick, having a great time being locked in a stupid conference room without any fucking FOOD or ENTERTAINMENT!”

“Aww, well I’m sorry to hear that, kid. Say, why don’t you come down to the studio and we’ll try to get some work done?”

At least he wasn’t acting all strange, or any nicer than usual. “See, that would be lovely, but I just told you I’m LOCKED IN A GODDAMN MEETING ROOM!”

“Are you sure it’s locked, babe? Maybe you were just turning the handles wrong.”

On cue, a klokateer in the security department released the door’s locks.

“Whaddya think I am, some kind of stupid--” _click_ , he was free. Might as well try the studio, since Dick was actually doing something normal.

\------

When he entered, the lights were off. The all came on at once with a bang of confetti poppers, a yell of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” and six really unsure expressions from his bandmates, manager, and producer.

“What...the fuck...is this?” His face contorted in horror.

“We’ve got a surprise for you, babe!”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want it!”

“C’mon Murderface, just sit down and listen for a minute.” Nathan shoved him in the ribs so hard he _had_ to sit down.

Knubbler hit play, and everyone looked even more uncomfortable. Whatever was pulsating through the speakers...it SUCKED! But William had to keep listening, because it all sounded vaguely familiar. He could almost place it...

“What was that garbage?” he asked as the final notes faded out.

Knubbler forced a gummy grin, and one of his eyes flickered in either a wink or a pained twitch. “That was our baby, our lovechild. Willy, that was Planet Piss!”

So it was, huh. He’d had a hand in making that utter and complete trash? How embarrassing. What had Knubbler done with all his great sessions? “I, uh...I guess I don’t really...know what to say.”

Dick renewed his grin, and Charles gave a small nod. The producer rolled his chair over to William’s and gave him a kiss on the cheek. His face twisted a little more.

“Congrats on the solo launch, babe.”

“That was so gay, I think I’m going to throw up.” But at least Dick - and all of them, he guessed, - really had remembered his birthday. His cheek burned with the kiss.

 


End file.
